


Step It Out

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [40]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13970115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: First Call hosts a St Patrick's Day party





	Step It Out

Title: Step It Out

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality

Rating: PG-13

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Special thanks to Katbear, Merry Amelie and Helen, mes betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess  
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper?  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance?  
Four Green Fields  
Too Darned Hot  
Pomp and Circumstances  
Summertime Blues  
Blow the Man Down  
Post-Graduate Studies  
Crossing the Pond  
Moving On  
Picnic in the Park  
Family Matters  
Meeting of the Moms  
Ebony and Ivories  
A Less Than Perfect Storm  
Chicken Soup  
Measuring Up  
The Drinking Game  
Rainy Day Recess Revisited

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben read the emailed invite. First Call was hosting an Irish Night party at headquarters for St. Patrick’s Day. His new employer’s burgeoning social calendar had been a wake-up call, to say the least, but this sounded made to order. 

 

Fred’s private postscript -- “Don’t forget the wine!” -- made him grin. Quinn’s homemade dandelion wine had won him instant acceptance with Ben’s co-workers at last fall’s picnic. They had gifted each of Ben’s team with a bottle at Christmas, two for Teresa Rivera, who had fond memories of the libation from her childhood. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Sounds like fun,” Quinn commented that evening, as Ben wrote the party on the refrigerator calendar. He’d learned the hard way: If it wasn’t on that chart, in *big* letters, it simply didn’t exist in Professor Fossil’s mind.

 

“We’re under strict orders to bring the wine,” Ben said over his shoulder, circling the date (which was even on a Saturday this year) in green marker, with little shamrocks in the corners.

 

“Wouldn’t be a First Call party without it,” Quinn agreed, with a wry smile. “But I’m not sure we have enough for the entire building.” He thought for a moment. “But I’m sure there’ll be plenty *other* brews. Guinness, Jameson’s, Bushmills and the like.”

 

Ben nodded. “We’ll just bring enough for my team. If they want to share, it’s on them.”

 

“And I’m guessin’ you’ll be wantin’ to be breakin’ out the Dublin sweaters?”

 

“What else? But we’d better wear green, too. Don’t want to get pinched.” Ben grinned at his partner, calling to mind the warning he’d received when they’d gone to Boston for the St. Patrick’s Day parade and concert the year before.

 

“Hmm, true enough. Very well, we’ll be wearin’ a bit o’ the green *and* the sweaters, do it up right, yeah?” Quinn’s exaggerated brogue confirmed his amused acquiescence.

 

“It’s party time, babe! Éirinn go Brách!”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Armed with bottles of dandelion wine and two six-packs of Guinness Black Lager, the two men entered the First Call auditorium Saturday evening. Green, white and orange streamers hung all around the room and edged the refreshment tables. A huge Irish flag was mounted overhead, billowing gently as people passed. The majority of the guests wore varying shades of green, with a sprinkling here and there of orange, even a couple of diplomatic green-and-orange plaids. Quinn and Ben wore matching O’Donovan pullover Aran sweaters over deep green button-down shirts, their County Antrim wedding attire having been deemed too formal for the occasion.

 

“Ben! Quinn! Top o’ the evenin’ to ya!” somebody yelled from across the room, and Ben tried not to wince. Sounded like someone had already dipped into the “libations.” Quinn didn’t react, but Ben knew the Americanism had jarred his Irish-born partner’s sensibilities. 

 

“Shall we?” Quinn said, gesturing him forward.

 

Teresa Rivera, in a green silk shirt over dark slacks, approached. “Glad you could make it,” she said, brown eyes twinkling at the sight of the corked bottles. “I see you got Fred’s note about the wine.”

 

“Wouldn’t have dared to disobey, milady,” Quinn said with a bow, handing her a bottle. “Everything looks grand.” Ben echoed the sentiment.

 

“*Love* your sweaters,” Teresa said, reaching out to touch Ben’s sleeve. “They’re authentic, I’m sure.”

 

“My clan pattern, aye,” Quinn replied. 

 

“They’re beautiful.” She gestured toward the stage. “We’re going to have some live music a bit later on. Should be a lot of fun.”

 

“It’ll be brilliant,” Quinn agreed, with a smile.

 

“The others here yet?” Ben asked, looking around.

 

“Fred’s over at the refreshment table. No surprise there. I’m sure everyone will be along soon.”

 

“Ye’ll be savin’ me a dance, now, yeah?” Quinn asked her.

 

Teresa smiled up at him. “I think that could be arranged, Professor,” she said. “Just as long as you’re not expecting anything too outrageous.”

 

“Och, we’ll nae be after makin’ any promises, lass.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Piped-in Irish music blared from the speakers as the room began to fill. Ben recognized most of the songs, and Quinn was able to fill him in on the occasional miss. They made their way around the room, greeting other members of the team. Ben introduced Quinn to co-workers he’d not yet met, and they made polite small talk. There were several envious comments on their attire, some asking where they might make similar purchases. Ben promised to send a link to a couple of shops in Ireland with good prices and selections. 

 

He felt more than heard the occasional nudge or whisper as they passed, and told himself firmly that he was *not* going to hide or allow himself to be embarrassed over the fact that he and Quinn were there as a couple. His team had readily adopted Quinn as their own, a welcome breath of fresh air after the stifling Academy atmosphere. Quinn was clearly in his element, and Ben took his cues from his partner, greeting co-workers, clinking glasses and enjoying the comradery. He even laughed it off when a couple of less-than-sober women in Dr. Seuss green hats and shamrock facial tattoos flirted openly with Quinn, who adroitly deflected their efforts, even as he automatically responded with swoon-worthy compliments. Charming others came as naturally as breathing to the man, a talent honed at many an Academy fund-raising dinner.

 

As they reached the far end of the room, Quinn drew him aside and touched his shoulder. “Havin’ fun, love?” he asked. The blue eyes were bright, but Ben saw the unspoken touch of concern. Quinn knew him so well…

 

“I’m having a great time,” he assured him. “You?”

 

Quinn nodded amiably. “It’s a grand gather, to be sure. Music’s a wee bit loud, but that’s to be expected, yeah? Didn’t Teresa say there’s goin’ to be a live band later?”

 

“Uh huh. I hear they’re pretty good, too. Remember, you promised to dance with her,” he said, smiling up at his handsome lover.

 

“Aye, though I’m wonderin’ exactly what kind of dancin’ they’ll be expectin’,” Quinn answered with a chuckle. 

 

“Let ’em be surprised,” Ben quipped.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The band took the stage about an hour into the festivities. Four men and one woman, with guitars, mandolin, a couple of penny whistles and, to Quinn’s delight, a bodhran, the Irish handheld drum. They played a couple of popular Irish tunes, then the lead singer stepped up to the microphone.

 

“A fine evening it is, to one and all,” he said, “and it’s a bonny roomful of green, too, to be sure!” Accustomed to Quinn’s County Antrim brogue, the counterfeit accent grated on Ben’s ears. This guy sounded more like Brooklyn than Ballymena. “Would we all be up for a wee bit of dancing?” Affirmative choruses. “Well, then, let’s have a go!” 

 

They began a lively reel and couples gyrated freestyle to the upbeat tempo. Quinn sipped from a glass of Jameson’s and waved Ben out to the floor with petite Thanh Nguyen, his First Call teammate. They made an attractive couple. Ben had a natural animal grace, and the ballroom lessons he and Quinn had taken together had honed the lad’s ability to move with his partner. Thanh’s long black hair was braided with green ribbons, and she swayed like a sapling in the wind. 

 

Fred approached. “Looks like they’re having a good time, huh?”

 

Quinn nodded. “Everyone is. Good band. Good party.”

 

“You dance?” Fred continued, leaning in to be heard over the noise.

 

“Aye,” Quinn said casually, continuing to watch Ben and Thanh. 

 

“Know any of that ‘Riverdance’ stuff?” He jigged in place, arms overhead. It more resembled a Scottish fling than Irish step dancing, but Quinn diplomatically held his tongue.

 

“Y’mean steppin’, yeah?” The other man nodded eagerly. “Sure, most Irish-borns learn it growin’ up.” 

 

“Love to see some,” Fred enthused. “After all, this is an Irish party, right? Would you?”

 

Quinn considered. “Why not?” he agreed. 

 

Fortunately, the next song was one Quinn recognized, with an easy tempo. “Excuse me,” he said to Fred. Approaching Ben’s boss a few feet away, he tapped her on the shoulder and held out his hand as she turned. “Might I have the pleasure?” he asked with a smile.

 

Teresa nodded and he escorted her to the dance floor, leaning down to speak into her ear. “Are ye familiar with Irish steppin’?” Her grin said she was game, so he took her in his arms, demonstrating some simple moves. She quickly caught the rhythm, and they found themselves the focus of attention. Quinn caught a glimpse of Ben on the sideline, clapping enthusiastically as they whirled past. 

 

By the end of the song, they were both more than a little breathless. She laughed up at him, face flushed with pleasure. “Oh, that was fun! Do you give lessons, Professor?”

 

He chuckled. “I’m a wee bit rusty meself, but ye’re a grand lady to be sayin’ it.” He led her to the refreshment table and poured them each a glass of dandelion wine. Ben came up on his other side and reached for a ginger ale. 

 

“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, eat your hearts out!” he said, slipping an arm around Quinn’s waist for a quick squeeze. “That was amazing, Teresa!”

 

“It was all him,” Teresa demurred. “I just held on for the ride!” She grinned at her teammate. “You and Thanh were looking pretty good out there yourselves earlier. You’re a great dancer, Ben.”

 

“Comme ci, comme ca,” Ben said modestly. “He’s the dancer in the family,” nudging Quinn in the ribs. “You should see him in a ballroom, all gussied up in his tux.” He fanned himself with a napkin. “Wow.”

 

“I’m sure,” Teresa said. “Maybe we’ll have to plan something a bit more formal sometime, where we can have a proper demonstration.”

 

“Not just on my account, please,” Quinn averred, with a smile.

 

The music began again, and Ben impulsively turned to his partner. “Wanna?” he said, half-challenge, half-request.

 

Quinn studied him, then set down his glass. “Why not?” he said, taking his hand. Both men heard Teresa’s approving cry behind them.

 

Ben moved familiarly into Quinn’s arms, much as Teresa had moments earlier. He’d come to enjoy step dancing; it was good exercise and a way for them to indulge their mutual pleasure in Quinn’s native culture. Quinn’s proud grin acknowledged his courage, even as strong arms spun him in time to the music. He heard more whistles and shouts as they twirled and stamped, faster and faster, then broke apart to dance side by side in a complex synchronized routine. Even the band was getting into it, urging them on through to the final crescendo. 

 

“That was incredible!” Fred cried, slamming foamy pints of Guinness into both men’s hands. “Unbelievable!” The others of Ben’s team surrounded them, echoing his accolades. “I wanna try!” Fred went on excitedly. “Teach me?” he asked Quinn, who took a long swallow of the dark ale, then wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

 

Quinn hesitated. Then, seeing the unreserved acceptance in Ben’s green eyes, he nodded and handed him his glass. “It’s yer funeral, laddie,” he warned, signaling to the band for something a bit less rowdy. The floor cleared, leaving them a wide space in which to move. Fred’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm, and Quinn told himself to quit worrying about dancing in public with another man (not even Ben), and to just go with the flow. It was just another kind of lesson, and he was, after all, a teacher.

 

Fred was light on his feet, he gave him that. To the strains of “Step It Out, Mary,” they danced side by side, gradually increasing the tempo, bolstered by the clapping around them. Then Fred turned to him and held out his arms. Quinn linked their crossed hands between their bodies and pulled Fred in a circle while he turned in place. Sweat flew from both their faces as they whirled, Fred’s white teeth flashing in a bold grin. 

 

When the number ended, the band called a break. Quinn begged to sit down for a moment, pleading his bad knee and the heat of the room. His shirt was sticking to him under his sweater. Ben brought him a fresh glass, and Quinn took a cautious sip, blessing his lad with his eyes when he realized it was non-alcoholic. His head was spinning enough from his exertions on the dance floor. It would never do for him to make a spectacle of himself in front of Ben’s coworkers.

 

“Holding up there, love?” Ben said as he sat down next to him. “I think Fred’s about to pass out. You did warn him, though.” He glanced back at the tall dark-skinned man, who was leaning against one of the tables talking animatedly with some of the other guests in between big gulps from his glass. 

 

“He’s not bad,” Quinn conceded. “But I’d rather be dancin’ with ye, to be sure.” He smiled into his lover’s green eyes and saw the only answer he ever needed or wanted. “We’ll be the talk of the walk come Monday, I’m thinkin’,” he added humorously.

 

Ben shrugged. “Let them talk,” he said. “I’m not ashamed of it. Are you?”

 

“O’course not, but it does take a wee bit of gettin’ used to, y’know,” Quinn replied, a bit more seriously. “We spent so damned long hidin’ out, and now…” He trailed off and sipped his ginger ale. “Thank ye for this,” he added, raising his glass. 

 

“No worries. I know you can hold your liquor, but figured you’d like the break,” Ben said. “And I know how fond you are of *warm* Guinness, after all. People will just think you’re drinking the blonde stuff.”

 

Quinn made a face at the reference to the Irish tradition of drinking room-temperature ale. “Tastes like sludge, unless it’s icy cold,” he agreed. “Guess I’ve just been in the States too long.”

 

Teresa came over to them, shaking her head. “Fred *cannot* stop talking about that dance, Quinn. I think you’ve created a monster. He’s even trying to talk us into forming an Irish Step Club! Interested in maybe giving a few guest lectures?”

 

Quinn groaned dramatically. “Oh, my God. There’s got to be better at it than me. Ben here can show ye the ropes. He’s got most of it down already.”

 

“You’re the teacher, Professor,” Ben reminded him. “But I’ll be there to protect you.” He patted his partner’s arm. “Dinna worry, laddie, it’ll be grand.”

 

“Brat,” Quinn muttered, with a fatalistic shrug.

 

~end~


End file.
